The sky did not thunder. It simply stopped breathing.
Above Vantross Hollow, a fractured moon hung in quiet decay, its light filtered through layers of ash and shadow. The land below — cracked stone, ancient sigils, and forgotten bones — held its breath, as if the world itself anticipated failure.
He stood at the center of a forgotten sanctum, cloaked in crimson that rippled against a wind that did not exist. The Crimson Warden, once feared, once whole. Now merely a man at the edge of becoming something else — or nothing at all.
The razorbill-headed cane in his hand quivered like a living thing. The carved obsidian head shimmered faintly, its avian eyes closed in meditation or defiance. It was not just a weapon. It was a companion, a key, a relic. And it knew what was about to happen.
So did he.
His breath steamed into the cold, despite no chill in the air. His chest pulsed with unfamiliar heat. The sigils burned beneath his gloves, crawling like fire under skin. The marks of a binding long strained, now fracturing.
He looked upward, past the voidlight sky, past the ruins of what had once been divine, to the altar before him — carved stone and bone, fused with relic-ore and inscribed with truths too old for memory.
"It begins here," he said, softly.
The cane clicked in response.
Behind him, the air rippled. Four rifts shimmered like blood in water — each a tear in the veil of self.
The Echoes stirred.
They were not phantoms. They were not demons. They were him — splinters of a soul once fused by force, now unraveling into fragments with names, wills, and power of their own.
Sol. The righteous blaze.
Nyx. The whisper of secrets.
Thorn. The fury of wild blood.
Nocturne. The sorrow that never slept.
He could feel them pulling at the edges of his identity — children torn from their mother's breath, both estranged and entitled.
"Stay," he commanded.
But it was too late.
The altar erupted. A shockwave of soundless force lifted him from the ground, arcane glyphs igniting beneath his boots and racing up his spine. The cane was flung from his hand, tumbling through the air, screaming with its own voice.
Then — stillness.
He floated above the stone, arms outstretched, body cruciform.
The world darkened, not from absence of light, but from presence of something else — something vast, waiting beyond comprehension. The sky bled inward, forming a spiral of red and black, and from within that wound came a voice:
"WHO DARES CLAIM THE UNITY?"
It was not sound. It was gravity. Thought. Judgment made audible.
His mouth moved without consent.
"I do," he said, voice cracking. "I bear it still."
The answer displeased whatever gods still watched.
A great tearing split his chest open — not with blood, but with essence. From his core exploded light, and color, and pain. Four beams shot outward, spiraling into the heavens — each streak of soul cleaving away and becoming something independent.
They screamed. Not with mouths — with identity.
And then they were gone.
Sol. Nyx. Thorn. Nocturne.
He fell.
He hit the ground hard. Too hard. Bones screamed. The sigils along his arms flickered and died. His lungs dragged in dust and regret. The cane landed beside him with a dull metallic thud.
He turned his head, just barely.
The razorbill eyes of the cane opened.
For a moment, it almost looked sad.
Then all went still.
The moons above wept crimson tears.
The wind began to move again, carrying the faint echo of something ancient and broken.
And the Crimson Warden lay in the dirt, a god unmade, as his soul burned in four directions — and the world held its breath once more.
End of Prologue
Next: Chapter One – The Awakening